Rouge at Dusk
by misanthropic shade
Summary: It's been nearly twenty years since Dante was last at his father's castle. Even after so long, time seems to be a transparent barrier where memories mingle with the present. Something remains in the castle. Something destined to be in his possession.


Title - Rouge at Dusk

Author - trowacko

Rating - PG13

Warnings - angst, introspection, youth and hope

Disclaimers - I do not own Devil May Cry in any way, nor do I make a claim to. No profit, no harm done.

He was born a prince of men, destined to grow into a prince among devils. He, he'd hear whispered in the great halls, would become the embodiment of his parent's union. From his first memories, only boredom haunted Dante's dreams as he listlessly endured hours of tutors and lessons of histories that half his blood cared little for twice the time. His mannerisms were carefully monitored, admired and admonished by turn, sometimes in the same breath. He grew in the light of his mother, sometimes fearing the shadow of his father where his mirror image lurked with the same dark and foreboding eyes. The two boys knew of each other quite well, having the summer of youth with which to indulge in play far from shadow and light where only the two existed.

"Learn anything worthwhile today?" Vergil grinned darkly, amused and jealous that his brother's position might exceed his own despite being assured their status as princes was equal. The two spoke little of their days of training, one in mind, the other in strength as had been for as long as either could remember. Dante demurred, ill content that he couldn't learn to wield a sword as well as his brother or learn how to create energy from mere emotion when it came to an exchange of lessons.

"Not in school," Dante returned, poking at the ground with short stabs from a stick that had been in his path. He'd picked it up with little thought for it other than he could swing and stab with it, unconsciously displaying his desire to learn swordplay. He dared not ask Vergil what he'd learned, especially from the first time he'd seen Vergil's power grow strong enough to create a thin reddish halo about his body when Dante could not dare to hope to learn such things yet.

"So what didjya learn?" Vergil asked again, nudging his brother slightly as the two walked down the oft-trodden path toward the cliff's edge. The sun, it seemed, had waited for their nearly daily walk before it began to slowly sink toward the water's edge were it would magically extinguish itself only to rise like a phoenix the next morning from the land opposite.

Dante bit his lip, unsure as to how to explain what had occurred in his schooling that day since he did not understand it himself. He stopped before they reached the clearing from which they could feel the salty spray lightly coat their skin as they merely stood looking out to sea.

"Lady Cita visited Mother again today," he started. He glanced up at his brother to see the same look of consternation cross his brother's features as had crossed his own earlier that day. 

The Lady in question had entered the boys' lives a scant two years previous, although her few visits rarely included more than a token introduction to whichever boy happened to be close by as was befitting societal standards. Each time she had visited, their mother would sink into a ... haze of her own, uncomforted by word from either son or her husband. The visits, they'd noted long ago, seemed to have a similar effect on their father as well, although his disposition often favored barely contained rage and agitation. Neither parent had bothered to divulge why such visits were so upsetting, let alone why the Lady had never been permitted to speak to either boy without the strict observation of at least one parent. That morning, Dante had come across the Lady in the garden when she'd been on her way inside.

"Did she say anything to you?" Vergil prodded, eager at news of the only discord in the steady pulse of their lives as a visit from Lady Cita. He turned his brother toward him as if seeing the other's expression would enliven whatever tale Dante would impart.

"She told me a story," Dante started, suddenly feeling a chill in the air that hadn't come from the warm air by the sea. His eyes found his brothers and the older couldn't help but see the imploration in them, as if asking for salvation from the tale. When seconds passed, Dante glanced at the ground, but he began his tale, reciting to his brother what he would later recount alone while standing in the dark ruins of his father's castle where neither mortal or devil dwelled any longer. He told the tale as if he'd been there himself, and as his father's son, perhaps part of him had and the retained knowledge helped him visualize the horrors he'd never witnessed.

__

"The sky was red," Dante started, his eyes softening until his mind's eye opened the door to the tale that had haunted him all day. "Lady Cita said it was red because it was full of the blood of devils..."

Dark warmth had permeated the earth, giving rise to the foulest of stenches that came from the rotted blood of demon and mortal alike. Along the horizon, sprawling hills and valleys had formed from the gored bodies of the deceased, tossed aside and piled so the living could fight upon their spilled blood. The sounds of swords had drowned out the sounds of nature that even the howling wind couldn't be heard above the clash of metal against metal and the harsh cries sprung from the battle impassioned and the dying. 

Their father, the devil who had betrayed his own kind for the sake of mortals, directed those under his command to their deaths with the promise of freedom. He had stood that day, remembering how many had been killed before and certain more would follow should he not achieve victory quickly. At the newest howls that rose in the night like a child's cry of life, Sparda's own battle cry sounded and those closest to him responded in like, following their commander to victory or death. Perhaps in his service, they were the same. In unison, his men drew free their weapons and their hearts pounded as wildly as the hooves of the terrified animals that carried them into war. It was toward the middle of the battleground that Sparda sought to achieve when he spotted his old master cutting a swath through his soldiers. Leaping high into the air, Sparda flew at the devil lord, knocking them both to the ground before either could skewer the other. Sparda had rolled over, gaining his feet quickly and fought Mundus while their charges fought around them. 

The sound of their battle wasn't particularly different than those around them, yet soon fights slowly tapered and the two sides faced each other, growls and taunts flung at each other while they watched their masters fight. Like opposing packs snapping at the other over a piece of carrion that probably wasn't fit for either, their cries grew loud as the battle raged on. Mundus' longer sword managed to catch Sparda every so often, though not enough to cause substantial damage while Sparda's attacks seemed to slowly chip away at Mundus' patience, if not his defense. The two slowly lost their mortal forms, digressing to their baser demon states with which to draw greater power from. Mud splattered both demons until thick congealed clumps of mud and blood peppered them both. Had Sparda time to think, he might have thought of how similar they looked covered in the mingled blood of the deceased. 

The sun had started to sink beneath the horizon, warning of impending dark when a cry of triumph sounded in the dismal air. Each side fell quiet as they regarded the winner, sword raised high in the air while demonic energy coursed over his skin. The other hand rose and offered the brightly shining sword a simple amulet that had been around the owner's neck. The two mated in a blinding shock of red mingled with black and soon the blood-spattered sword came to life.

Thick liquid ropes of blood or some other essence rose to claim the sword's edge. It built and the energy compounded upon its surface was enough to force its owner to grasp it with both hands simply to keep balance. Part of the substance shifted and Sparda sliced downward with it, watching in fascination as the edge grew as long as a lance and sharp enough to cleave Mundus' crown from the shell of his body. He drew the weapon sideways, marveling at the way the liquid blade manipulated its shape into an axe-like shape that cut the air before the creatures who stood almost too close. He finished the arc by raising it to the dark heavens again, where it stood as a testament to the blood that had been spilled by forcing that very blood into the weapon of victory. Sparda's voice rang long and loud into the red twilight, new owner to a nameless sword that soon became known by his very name. Thus, the path of the Legendary Dark Knight had begun.

__

"The sword was said to have been destroyed to prevent anyone from gaining its power," Dante commented, his mind still fixed on the visions that Lady Cita's tale had invoked. "Yet she said the sword is here and soon it will create peace when the skies turn red once more."

"That's..."

That's...

that...

"That's so impossible, he said," Dante whispered. Child himself, he could barely bring himself to believe the tale told by one he suspected as a devil and a seer. He closed his eyes at the memory, feeling another pang of loss strike him as forcefully as had occurred when he'd caught sight of his father's castle less than an hour previous. "There wasn't a lot of things Vergil ever said were impossible, you know," he told the walls as his steps plunged him deeper into the past and closer to whatever it was that he had come for. The walls returned the words to him, mangled and unintelligible as walls have a tendency to do. A trait that made them the best and worst for lonely conversation, Dante reflected. He glanced at the many portraits that had once adorned the walls, some missing, some destroyed, some worn to the point that the sitter had become wizened and decrepit. Devils and humans, side by side for all eternity, rotting away in the company of the other while wars raged beyond the walls that had barely kept them alive. Or company in death at the very least, he amended as he caught a whiff of the decayed air that had claimed the castle.

At the twin staircases that split the floors above, Dante regarded both curiously, trying to sense which direction to take. He had started up the north staircase that led into the various parlors where his mother enjoyed entertaining when a laugh caught his attention from behind the south staircase toward his father's various chambers. He turned in that direction, his heart thudding dully in his chest as he sought the source and found yet another memory.

He remembered how Vergil had looked that day, covered in sweat and perhaps an equal amount of cobwebs as he finally wriggled free of the cramped space they'd discovered the previous year. Dante had laughed at his brother until he saw the haggard way Vergil had looked and how his body trembled, though certainly not from the few spiders that crawled over him.

"What happened?" Dante, the devil-hunter had asked when he was a boy. He'd asked because his brother never feared anything before. "What happened?" the man asked himself instead and he watched the stairs, half-closing his eyes and inviting the memory to surface.

"Nothing? No, it wasn't nothing. It was..."

__

"Nothing happened.

Nothing."

"Stop lying," Dante had pouted, crossing his arms as only he could in the presence of his brother alone. "You look --" _afraid_, he thought but wouldn't say. He watched in utter astonishment as his only pillar of strength - besides his intimidating father that was - fell to his knees, shuddering and gasping. Dante's child mind had been frightened at the open display of anguish that was his copiously sobbing brother. Afraid, truly afraid, for the first time, Dante stepped away from Vergil as if the sorrow were contagious. Within seconds, guilt stabbed at him and he fell to his knees next to his brother. He absently wiped the webs from his brother's shoulder and roughly pulled him closer, holding him steady with his arms and his own fledgling strength while Vergil's sobs wracked both their bodies. For the first time in their lives, Dante had become Vergil's pillar and Vergil gratefully let loose the cries that welled from the surface of his soul. Minutes that seemed like hours had passed before he tried speaking of what he'd saw; no, of what he had felt.

"There's something back there," he'd stuttered at long last, wiping at his tears angrily. He fell away from his brother, allowing a brief smile to cross his lips in thanks, and sat on the cold stone floor.

Dante had regarded the slim door that was made up of part of the staircase. "That door doesn't go anywhere," Dante replied dubiously. From the thin crack, he could discern nothing in the darkness, except, perhaps, the fancies of a frightened boy who wouldn't voice fear.

"I didn't ask you to believe me," Vergil replied dourly, gaining his feet. He ruined the momentary bravado with a loud sniffle and wiped at his nose. "There's something back there. Or down there. Or close to there. It's too much, though. It's..." his breath caught as fear or something worse threatened to claim him again and instead he shook his head and kicked the slim door. It shut with a protesting bang before appearing as an almost discernable portion of wall. "You aren't to open that door ever again, do you understand me?" Vergil's voice hardened and despite being the same height, he seemed to suddenly tower over his brother.

"Vergil, it's just--"

"If you _ever_ open that door, I'll know and I'll find you. Do you understand?"

The command didn't frighten Dante as much as the fear behind the forced words. He didn't trust himself to answer and merely bobbed his head in agreement, knowing his wide eyes had to convey his acquiescence as well. Nevertheless, he spared the door one last glance, promising himself that one day he'd venture into the door with the cramped space that they couldn't quite seem to fit anymore to know what his brother had seen - it was barely fit to be called a closet. Not then, he knew. Whatever it was had badly frightened his brother enough for anger to be his words of protection.

__

Nearly twenty years later and oh, wonder, nothing's changed.

"Almost," Dante amended out loud. He knelt and gingerly touched the worn lock that had been surreptitiously placed near the edge of the door. It gave a little at his touch, a protection spell that warned him by pricking his finger when he didn't move it right away. He scowled at the small prick, flicking the blood away while he pulled out a small vial of water. Uncorking the top, he carefully splashed some of the contents on the lock and listened to its almost silent howl of pain before it expired, clicking open quietly.

Something was down there, Vergil had said in a frightened tone that had frightened Dante as a boy himself. Indeed, two decades had nearly passed and the recollection gave Dante shivers. He gazed up at the remainder of the blank staircase, remembering his brother, remembering their days of abandon and mild jealousy. He remembered when Vergil started teaching him to fight when no one else would, showing him techniques as he mastered them. He remembered learning moves for a sword that didn't exist, yet logging away the information because it was Vergil who had taught him to. Vergil who had shown him how to expand and employ his demonic energy in battle and Vergil who had once said how much he admired how quickly Dante learned.

"Show me," Dante commanded at the wood paneling, suddenly feeling the sweep of elusive energy close at hand. A slight ripple showed across the false wood and Dante drew himself up, raising his voice as his father had rarely done. "Show me!"

A series of clicks sounded and the wood paneling suddenly vanished to an inky pool of swirling liquid that beckoned Dante closer. Without trepidation, Dante crossed the threshold of the dark room, shuddering at the clammy feel that enveloped his body as he passed through a dimensional membrane. The feeling was one he hadn't gotten used to and probably one of the reasons that Vergil had been as frightened if he got stuck partway between both dimensions.

Once through the membrane, Dante blinked rapidly. His body stiffened at the sense of danger close by and he cast about for an enemy only to find himself alone. The small dim room held a single piece of furniture in the form of a sitting couch, similar in style as the pieces in the smallest parlor. The faded black and grey marbled surface hadn't been sat upon in quite some time, Dante noted. He glanced at the walls, seeing a battered crest on the far wall above and to the right of the couch. Small streaks of blood lay across its surface and Dante instinctively knew it must have belonged to Mundus. A single candle holder sat near the short couch, endlessly burning as it waited for a visitor to sit next to it and see... something other than the trophy behind the couch, which would be out of view. 

Dante glanced around again, seeing nothing else besides these two things and the dark wall he'd passed through, yet a presence seemed to flood the room, filling his nostrils with a taunt of blood and battle. It perturbed him to have found nothing more than his father's old trophy in an otherwise empty room. Frowning, he made his way to the couch and turned to sit upon it when his eyes saw what he couldn't see from the door, though he'd stood right next to it. He sat heavily, briefly thankful that the couch had caught him. He blinked rapidly, yet his vision never wavered.

Upon the wall next to the door sat a sword affixed to the wall by simple iron hooks that held it upright and its blade downward. He stared at the sword and it stared back at him. Its power was suddenly overpowering and Dante gasped as he felt it reach for him, beckon him to take it in his hands and wield its power as his father had done so long ago. He resisted the impulse to claim the plain sword that had been the killer of devils and mortals alike. The sword had stolen part of his father's life in its creation, he understood. He could feel how it tapped into his own strength every so often and he mentally worked on reigning in his power lest the sword draw too much from him.

Yet this sword was not whole, nor was it made of the liquid blood that Lady Cita had mentioned. Oh, but it could become whole again, Dante realized. Something had been mated with this sword at one point in time and he could see in the empty pocket staring at him that it only waited for something to make it whole once more. In his hands, he would wield its power and become its master even if it cost him his life. He would find a way to make the sword whole again and it would kill his enemies, mortal and devil alike, until he achieved his vengeance.

"Sparda," Dante whispered as he rose. The sword seemed to balk and Dante paused as he waited for the name to reach his warrior's heart. He strode quickly across the room and grasped the sword tightly in his hand. Lightning briefly sparked from its surface and quickly subsided. Dante triumphantly raised it to the false heaven of the dark room and spoke once more. "Force Edge," he murmured as he brought it closer for inspection. "Show me what you frightened my brother with that day. Show your master what secrets a boy wasn't ready for."

Pain claimed his body and Dante fell to his knees. Memories and emotions coursed through him so fast that he fancied he'd already lost his mind. He fell back and howled loudly as his father had howled when the sword had first been forged of blood and battle. His mind screamed in agony as techniques forged their way into his memories as if they'd always been there. He heard his father's mind weep in pain when his eyes could never shed the tears. He remembered everything the sword had seen since it had been created and every move to maximize its true form once it was whole. 

Dante opened his eyes to find himself kneeling before the simple crest of the Sparda line, hidden behind the sword and the sword's scabbard. His father's crest. _His_ crest. "Father," he croaked, stopping at the broken sound of his voice. He reached up and his trembling hand found a trail of tears down his cheek. "Father," he continued without shame. "Your sword has a new master. Your son has a mission and they will both see the end and victory."

Soon, he knew, a day would dawn where blood would be shed in the name of vengeance, if not true justice and before that day ended, he intended the blood to shine in the heavens as brightly as the day the sword had been born. Dante, killer of mortals and devils alike, strode from the room with his head held aloft. Not since the great Sparda had such a killer been set loose to make right what could only be corrected in the blood of so many.

By the time Dante strode from the decayed house, the sun had already set in fear.

*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane*


End file.
